The Well-Adjusted Mind Does Not In Here Reside
by nvzblgrrl
Summary: If the Veil is such a safety hazard, why does the Ministry keep it in such a conveniently accessible room? Why, to provide a quick and easy way to dispose of inconvenient things, of course! Semi-Rewrite of Under A Raven's Wings. No slash.


The Veil. A mysterious thingy that had lain languishing in the bowels of the Department of Mysteries for, likely, ever. Older than the Ministry, older than Hogwarts, and older than sin, it was hard to tell if it had been moved to the ministry to protect it from unscrupulous elements or if they had simply built around it, unable to resist the grave gravity of the thing. Used for everything from executions to convenient garbage disposal, the Veil remained silent, aside from the whisperings of lost souls on the other side of it.

It had been decades since someone had gone through it, though with the end of the Dementor's Kiss as the preferred method of wizard disposal, there were some who suggested using it as a means of execution once more. There was no guard on the room, and any security measures could easily be bypassed by a sufficiently skilled individual… or an employee of the Ministry, naturally.

Sensitive documents, mostly those that certain elements would rather see sealed in a rather more permanent fashion, cursed artifacts beyond the skill of men to cleanse, dangerous dead-end experiments… Just about anything that wasn't supposed to be found again would be shoved through the gate.

The leap from inconvenient items to inconvenient people was all too easy for some individuals to make, especially in the name of 'The Greater Good'.

* * *

"Prisoner Berkanan-Three-Isaz-Halgaz-Seven-Ear-Geadal, to your feet." The guard droned. They didn't use names with these prisoners. The walls had ears, after all, and certain names could very well perk those ears up.

The prisoner, an old man with matted white hair that hung down to his waist, glared at the speaker. It was a vain effort, as evidenced by the blind white that clouded eyes that once were as black as the bottom of an inkwell, but obviously one of long disused habit. The man would have easily been a corpse aside from them; all shriveled and skeletal, clad in the tatters of what once were prison rags.

The guard growled as his aged charge failed to stand up fast enough for his liking. "Hurry it up, Geadal. We haven't all day." The minister was coming around to make an inspection, and the prisoner, as dangerous as he was, was supposed to be dead some forty years on. War heroes, as slippery, slimy, and dark as they may very well be, aren't supposed to turn up in prisons, especially the super-secret government kind.

The prisoner snorted. "Only the rest of my life, it seems." He said with a voice that apparently hadn't been used properly in years.

"That's about the size of it, Geadal. End of the line." The guard grunted.

"So are you going to bore me to death with clichéd lines that have been bantered about for upwards of a century, MacHauley, or is there a more efficient method in store? Don't think I don't remember your name and how miserably you did on that examination." He sneered. MacHauley shuddered to think of how much worse this man had probably been before almost half a century of sensory deprivation.

The guard returned the sneer, even though the man couldn't appreciate the gesture. "Take a guess, Geadal. And, guess what? I was after your time. That was my father."

"Your_ special_ brand of idiocy must be a family trait then." The prisoner said poisonously.

Christopher MacHauley would later admit to one of his coworkers that after than exchange, any moral compunction about shoving a half-blind old man through a portal to certain death clammed right up.

* * *

The Veil was just as impressive as it had always been; tall, cold and as welcoming as an open grave. The man known as Geadal said nothing. What point was there in speaking? He had waited years for his death. He welcomed the idea of a final release. So why did the idea suddenly seem so abhorrent?

The final set of shackles suddenly gave away, and as the prisoner lurched forward, through the spectral fabric of the Veil, he had a thought.

What if I get exactly what I deserve?

Oblivion over took his remaining senses, and the prisoner was released.

Something was wrong.

The former prisoner was absolutely certain on this fact. Something not being wrong in his life was impossible. The idea of several things being wrong at once, though… that idea wasn't so farfetched.

Perhaps it was the fact that the only pain he was in was completely typical for a man his age. Perhaps it was the fact that there was a chill wind blowing through his threadbare robes. Perhaps it was the fact that he was lying face down on what felt like asphalt. Perhaps it was the steady hum of what could only be a Muggle suburb in the background.

Severus Snape was all together certain that at least one of these things was indicative of him not being in the afterlife, despite the presence of one **highly** aggravating Maurader.

* * *

**Author Notes: The prison 'numbers' I assigned Snape are derived from Elder Furthark, Angelo-Saxon Furthark, Ogham and bog standard English numerals. I used Wikipedia as my source on the rune translations, so don't think of me as a true scholar of the subject, but I've tried to keep all the runes involved somewhat thematic (even if this is Riddler-level silliness). Refer to the Rune Poems posted on Wikipedia for the better part of the beauty (the Ogham runes don't have their own pages, sorry!)**

**Berkanan – Birch (Elder)**

**Isaz – Ice (Elder)**

**Halgaz – Hail (Elder)**

**Ear – Grave (Angelo-Saxon)**

**Geadal – Killing, Slays (Ogham)**

**146% positive that I do not own Harry Potter, Severus Snape, Sirius Black or any other related characters. I also do not own The Ministry of Magic, The Department of Mysteries, or the Veil. I do not own magic, in artifact form or otherwise, though I do have a replica of the Empiricist's Wand, two Thorns of Ogolgoth and a sack full of rune stones sans instruction manual.**

**Time Travel story? You betcha. This is kind of a pseudo-rewrite of a story that I really stopped working with a few months ago when I realized that 1) I had completely missed the mark with some (I mean most) of my characterization, 2) I had involved elements that didn't fit in with the setting at all, 3) I kept jumping around from POV to POV like a cat in a yarn factory, and 4) I had repeated myself, verbatim, on the very first chapter, within mere centimeters of each other.**

**Very embarrassing, I assure you.**

**I realize that fanfiction isn't always… perfect, of course. That's the nature of the craft. But I thought that the decent idea at the core could be salvaged, so I'm going to try again. Even though I have a thousand other ideas that are clamoring to be heard and I can't seem to ever finish a story unless it is a one shot or something of the kind.**

**Reviews are welcome, whether they be caustic, saccharine or mildly misspelt, along with criticism and remarks on where I tripped over my own feet in the telling. **

**I am not planning on any romance, slash or otherwise, and will be attempting to avoid unnecessary character bashing.**

** Consider me on notice.**


End file.
